


On Ice Cream & Tax Benefits

by HoloXam



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Episode: e160 A Fixer Upper (Rusty Quill Gaming), Fluff, Gen, Holding Hands, Hope, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Platonic Romance, Queerplatonic Relationships, Relationship Negotiation, does that sound tooth-rotting? why yes, like so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/pseuds/HoloXam
Summary: “How would that work, you think?” Wilde asks quietly, voice neutral.“Worked well enough back at the inn,” Zolf manages, feeling as if his vocal chords might give out on him any moment now. “I cook, you do paperwork and berate my taste in literature. With the current global economy, we'll be able to find a place for next to nothing, I'm sure.”Wilde lifts Zolf's hand and brings it up to his chin, putting his lips against the knuckles. It's not a kiss, but it's also not not a kiss.“Sounds nice,” he says.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 53
Kudos: 137





	On Ice Cream & Tax Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feels about QPR ZolfWilde I can't even. They should hold hands. They should get a flat. I love them. I did not expect to ship them this hard, but they live rent free in my head now...
> 
> Thanks to Kadet for reading this through, and for talking RQG with me always <3
> 
> There's a brief mention of depression in this, and a miscommunication which is solved immediately. (Also they're super awkward, both of them)

“Don't tell anyone,” Wilde says, “but I really quite like vanilla.”

“Do you, now,” Zolf grumbles, and places their ice cream order. Two scoops each, blueberry and mint chocolate chip for Zolf, pistachio and bourbon vanilla for Wilde, and in cups, thank you very much, because Zolf has a beard and Wilde has that thing with his face, and it might not end pretty otherwise. 

The market around them is bustling with activity, but the ice cream stall, wedged in tight between a fish merchant and a gnome dealing in apparently everything from hats to bicycles, is fairly unpopulated. It has a few tables crammed in close to a large glass tank where colourful fish swim lazily up and down, oblivious to their own fate. The owner of the ice cream stall is clearly prestidigitating the entire shop to keep the smell of fish from next door at bay. 

Zolf sits down across from Wilde, out of the way and next to the fish tank, and hands over the ice cream cup and a napkin. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” Wilde says. “What a week, hm?” 

“What a year,” Zolf replies with a shrug, scooping up a bit of the blueberry ice cream and looking at it critically. 

“Indeed,” Wilde says, mouth quirking towards amusement as he picks up his own ice cream and spoon. “And it's only Tuesday.”

Zolf pops the spoon in his mouth and slowly sucks off the ice cream. He narrows his eyes a bit, trying to contextualise the concept of 'Tuesday' and failing. Recently there's mainly been 'Might Die Today-Day' and 'Depression-slump' and Tuesdays fit equally poorly into both categories. It has been quite a while since he had any reason to pay attention to the weekdays, even before the world decided to come to an end around him. But if, here, in the bustling city of Hiroshima, there is time for something as domestic as an ice cream outing with Wilde, there probably can be found time for Tuesdays. 

Zolf hums and spoons himself another bite of ice cream, and lets his eyes rest on the colourful fish to his left. 

They sit there in comfortable silence for a while, slowly eating ice cream and watching the fish. That's the nice thing about Wilde, Zolf thinks, or, well, one of them. He doesn't get weird about silences, but has an intuitive knack for knowing when words aren't needed. Zolf is absolutely terrible at saying the right thing and knowing when to shut up, and respects Wilde all the more for it. 

“Can I try yours?” Wilde asks after a while, and Zolf turns to see him gesture at the ice cream. 

“What? Sure.” Zolf holds the spoonful he's just taken out to Wilde. Wilde leans in and lets Zolf feed him the spoonful, making an appreciative noise. 

“Nice, innit?” Zolf says, helping himself to a bit of Wilde's pistachio. Wilde nods, then rests his chin in his hand. 

“I've missed this.” Wilde looks him right in the eyes, and Zolf finds himself swallowing nervously. 

“What, ice cream?” 

“No, just—two of us, catching some downtime. A pretense of normalcy.” Wilde looks down at his hands, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against each other. “And you seem—” 

“To be less of a mess?” Zolf suggests, watching Wilde's nervous hands. He supposes that's true: he's not good with the waiting around, doing nothing. Being on the move and not being the one in the worst condition has certainly helped. “For the time being, yeah.”

Wilde folds his hands together and nods. 

“I'm glad,” he says. 

Zolf considers him for a moment. 

“So do you,” he says, biting lightly into his cheek. “I mean—even if I'm to be the butt of your jokes in front of  _ everyone—”  _

Wilde huffs out a laugh and puts one hand over his eyes, turning his head slightly. 

“I'd say I was sorry, but—”

“Well, done is done. Cel was having a field day of it though.”

“Ah.” Wilde reaches across the table and takes Zolf's hand in his. “If they only knew.”

Zolf looks down on their hands and feels his heart pick up its pace, the way it always does when they address this undefined thing between them. It's not  _ romantic,  _ as such, but it's also not _ not _ romantic. It's safety and arguments and comfort and ice cream not-dates and knowing which brand of hair product to buy and respecting silences and telling each other to stop wallowing and go to sleep, and sometimes it's curling up very close together and being grounded by another physical presence. It's the inability to imagine a future without it. 

Zolf closes his fingers around Wilde's. 

“Right,” he says. “Speaking of knots. After Svalbard—” 

“If there  _ is  _ an after Svalbard.”

“Yes, that. If there is an after—well, an after-everything, I guess—where are you gonna go?” 

Wilde runs his thumb over Zolf's knuckles and bites his lower lip in thought. 

“Home,” he says eventually. Zolf nods.

“And where is that?” 

Wilde reaches over the table with his other hand and runs a fingertip over the back of Zolf's hand from wrist to knuckles, then over Feryn's harlequin ring. 

“I don't know yet,” he says, drawing circles over the ring's ornament. Zolf puts his free hand on Wilde's wrist, and stares intently at their joined hands. It doesn't feel right to presume, to even hope that Wilde would want this quiet arrangement of theirs to turn permanent, on the off chance that the war ends and both of them make it out alive. But  _ someone  _ will have to look after Wilde and make sure he remembers to bloody  _ eat.  _ And that someone might as well be Zolf. 

“I thought I'd go back to London,” Zolf says airily. “If there still is a London by then. And, hm, I figured—” he looks up, back to the colourful fish on his left, and takes a breath. Wilde remains silent. Zolf can feel his eyes on his face, and it makes his cheeks heat up. “I figured that—if you don't have a specific place in mind, that maybe you'd—” he trails off in the middle of it, and wants to kick himself for it. Wilde's grip on his hand tightens, and his voice is low and rough when he says, “That I'd what, Zolf?” 

It's ridiculous that the words should be this difficult, Zolf thinks, trying to swallow but realising his mouth is too dry. He clears his throat.

“That you… might like to come with? I don't think I'd… do  _ well,  _ on my own.”

Wilde rearranges his grip on Zolf's hand, running both thumbs in circles over his knuckles. 

“How would that work, you think?” he asks quietly, voice neutral. 

“Worked well enough back at the inn,” Zolf manages, feeling as if his vocal chords might give out on him any moment now. “I cook, you do paperwork and berate my taste in literature. With the current global economy, we'll be able to find a place for next to nothing, I'm sure.”

Wilde lifts Zolf's hand and brings it up to his chin, putting his lips against the knuckles. It's not a kiss, but it's also  _ not  _ not a kiss. 

“Sounds nice,” he says. 

“So does that mean—” 

“That means  _ yes,  _ Zolf,  _ gods.”  _ Wilde bows his head, leaning his forehead against Zolf's hand. “Let's go back to London and co-own bookshelves. Tell Cel we're getting married. They'll be delighted.”

_ Hang on a minute.  _

“What?” Zolf says, taken aback. 

“What?” Wilde raises his head. 

“You meant that?” 

Wilde shrugs. “It seems like the logical progression, does it not?” 

“But we don't—we've never— _ I-I  _ don't really—” 

Wilde's face falls. “I'm sorry, I thought you were asking to—” he lets go of Zolf's hand and straightens his posture, making to stand. “I thought that was implicit. Forget I said anything.”

Zolf panics, reaching over to grab Wilde around the wrist. 

“No, Wil— _ Oscar.  _ Don't—you thought  _ what  _ was implicit?” 

Wilde looks at him, worrying his lower lip. He looks raw, eyes suddenly wet and glassy, and doesn't say anything. 

Zolf stares at him. When Wilde doesn't make to leave, Zolf releases his wrist, turning his head and looking away. 

“I'm so bad at this,” he says. Wilde makes a strangled noise, that Zolf is unsure whether is a snort or a sob—maybe it's both. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“I thought you were joking about the knot-tying thing. I didn't think you'd want that. That's usually something you do with a lover you'd like to keep for the rest of your life. Or as long as you can stand them, I guess.”

“Traditionally, yes.” Wilde's tone is clipped, cold. Zolf cringes. 

“And we're not exactly lovers.”

“Correct.”

Zolf leans back, blinking at Wilde. It feels a bit like he's drowning, like if he opens his mouth to speak, he'll breathe in a lungful of saying the wrong thing. Zolf  _ always  _ says the wrong thing, but saying nothing is just as bad. He balls his fists at his sides. 

“So why would you—and I'm not saying I wouldn't, Oscar, I'm just—what's in it for you? Tax benefits?” 

Wilde leans forward over the table and hides his face in his hands. His shoulders start shaking a little. Zolf stares at him, paralysed. It takes him several long, agonising moments to realise that Wilde is laughing. 

“Oh, Zolf,” Wilde says in between bursts of laughter, wiping at his eyes.  _ “Tax benefits.  _ If that was what I wanted, I'd try my luck with Hamid. Or his sister, she seems to have a head for business. You don't get it, do you?” 

“No, that's literally what I'm saying!” Zolf slams his hands down on the table, jumping a little at the sound it makes. He glances at the shopkeeper, and lowers his voice. “You're acting like I should know already what you're thinking, but I bloody don't, alright?” 

Wilde shakes his head. 

“You might not be the only one who's bad at this,” he says, tone sobering up. “I don't—I don't  _ like  _ talking about feelings. It's—I like your cooking. I like your company. I like your collection of romance novels. I'm not big on trust, Zolf, but I trust  _ you.  _ And I was—I  _ was _ joking, but—if you ask me to follow you and set up a  _ home,  _ then that's a commitment we make for at least as long as we can still stand each other, as far as I'm concerned. And if we, as you say, can get tax benefits by getting the paperwork done properly, then why shouldn't we?” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

“Oh,” Zolf says. 

“We don't have to do the official business. We don't have to say that we're—but I wouldn't mind it.”

“Oh,” Zolf says again, crestfallen. He looks at Wilde. “Alright then.”

“Is that your answer?” 

“You haven't actually asked me.”

Wilde rolls his eyes, and reaches over to take both his hands again. “Zolf Smith, cleric of hope and what comes next,” he says in mock-serious tones. “Would you, if the world fails to end—” 

Zolf smiles. “Your ice cream is melting.”

“Let me  _ finish.  _ If we survive, and Earhart doesn't throw me off her ship, and there still is anything like official paperwork afterwards, would you like to reap tax benefits with me in an official partnership and-or marriage?” 

“That was  _ terrible.  _ You know that, right?” 

“I despise you,” Wilde says. 

“So many what-ifs.”

“I know.”

“And you're just in it for the money.”

“Yes, absolutely. Tax benefits and blood money, that's what.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?” 

“Yeah, alright. Let's get married for tax reasons.”

Wilde starts laughing again, and Zolf joins him, feeling lighter than he has in ages. He hasn't really dared to envisage a future that wasn't just dark and dreary, but now he can't help it; Wilde in a sunspot in their kitchen, reading, maybe a cat in his lap. The image is calm and peaceful, and Zolf finds he wants it desperately—finds that he'll do more or less anything to achieve it. 

“Let's not tell Cel just yet, though,” he says. “Let them think it's a romance thing.”

“Romance, finance—some would argue those two are very closely connected.”

“Some people,” Zolf says, “Are completely missing the point. Eat your ice cream, before it turns completely into slurry.”

Wilde smiles at him. Zolf smiles back. 

Tuesdays, he thinks. Not so bad, all in all. 

The shopkeeper gives him a subtle thumbs up when he and Wilde leave the ice cream stall, hand in hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'll be very happy if you leave a keysmash in the comments, but really, just thank you for coming here today! I'm not normally fluffy but I guess things change. 
> 
> If you wanna hang, I'm on tumblr (holoxam) and twitter (holoxam).
> 
> Take care!


End file.
